A loss of words.


A loss of words
declining across each page
a trickling delta, casting out
  onto the sun-baked plain
Rising there, folding a thousand times
rippling the air, in a trembling mass
of horizon promises.

How does this vocabulary struggle
to break free from schooled maleficence?
How does the whisper tremble
to press dry presence from these words
older than memory?

Pray these opening days
might hold a better phrase,
finding in the silence of the wilderness
a diction which precedes comprehension,
and commits every moment
to a more profound breath,
  worth enduring their novel consequence.

Mourning? thy sentiment is misplaced!
To test these waters, without strength
or will to grasp success, is but
to feign life in so much mortal cloth.
But what of life is there?
What of that perduring light
yet glimmers in these eyes?

Without words to utter across the
  open between us, which by their
  passage might transport a warming touch,
Without a soul to touch this
  lost mind, or stroke friendship
  into these cold and broken shoulders,
There seems but little hope to gather
strength for the coming storm
  of Creation.